Blue Sea
by waituntil3
Summary: Rogue wakes up the morning after.


**Title:** Blue Sea  
**Prompt: **(#153) "Tangled up in blue"  
**Fandom: **XMEN  
** Characters:** Wolverine and Rogue, minor mention of Ororo, Scott and Bobby  
** Pairing:** Wolverine/Rogue  
** Summary:** Rogue wakes up the morning after.  
** Genre:** Romance/sexuality, mild fluff, movie based  
** Rating:** PG-13  
** 5 Keywords:** Virginity, blue, love, regret, skin  
** Word Count:** 801  
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My life. 

Blue sea of bedding, twisted sheets wrapped around delicate ankles, a swatch of navy across my stomach. Your arm bent, crooked elbow tucked beneath my hip; hot press of skin. Warm eyes, your gaze bewitching, and with a simple word you wake me.

"Mornin'."

Your breath stirs my hair and my heart flutters, momentarily unfettered. Dawn's pinkish light streams through the open window, marking a pattern of light and shadow across our sprawled bodies.

"Darlin'," comes your voice as you touch my face. Your chin juts out, nuzzling against my neck with an animal's fervor; a little too rough for morning, the scratch of your unshaven cheek. I learn that I don't mind the rasp of stubble.

"Logan." Your name escapes my lips in a breathless whisper. I almost can't believe it's you. Last night's distant memories linger in the back of my mind: the argument with Bobby; running through the woods in tears; finding you near the river, sipping your beer reflectively as you stared out at the water. The look you gave me the night before, which said everything and nothing, your glittering eyes offering only unspeakable promise. I recall the brief clasp of your hand over mine, the subtle squeeze and press of your fingers, the way you spoke my name to the darkness. "Logan," I say again, making sure as my fingertips trail over your bare shoulder. You give a minute shudder as I speak your name, as though the word on my lips matters more.

With a carnivorous smile you nod. "It's me." There is pleasure in your expression, a morning's contentment borne of peaceful sleep, but something darker lingers on your face - a residual guilt. Cautiously, as though studying a delicate thing, you slide your gaze from my face and down to where the sheet runs a swath of color across my breasts and ribs. Your expression clouds a little and you look away from the exposed skin.

"Don't." My hand slides across your face, cupping your cheek. I know what you're thinking, and I need you to see that it is okay. I have no regrets. "I'm glad it was you," I tell you, forcing you to look in my eyes. "I wanted it to be you."

"You're awful young though k-- Rogue," you tell me, a whispered admission. I can hear the sharp intake of breath as you stop yourself from saying "kid" and use my name instead. After what happened last night, "kid" no longer applies. I have finally grown up for you, outrun the little lost girl from Mississippi and become a worthy contender for your heart. I've outwitted Jean's memory; I can read that in your eyes. Your voice sounds hoarse, deeper than usual, but the stormy darkness is absent when you look at me again. "I'm glad too," you offer with a wink. With your lips turned up a trace, you stare at the door as though seeing through it, your mind elsewhere. "He'll wonder what happened to you."

"I don't care," I say, honestly. It's the truth. What Bobby Drake thinks no longer matters.

For a moment you seem heartened. Then you sigh. "You'll have to go soon," you announce; another obsticle. It's still early but we're running out of time. The sun is fully risen now, and the light outside your window is golden. Chances are I'm already late for my morning training session. I picture Scott in the Danger Room waiting for me, dressed in regulation black, an impatient tap at his wristwatch as he stares at the door, awaiting my appearance. You're late too, for meetings with Ororo and a flight simulation with Sam, but it is not important. I bite my lip and reach for you, and instead of drawing back you lunge forward, the way you did last night, heedless of worry or regret. The nip of your teeth on my bottom lip, the rise and fall of the wave of cloth, my arms around your neck; this is what matters. I find myself pressed firm again you as you kiss my mouth, and we both forget about the ticking of the clock on the bedside table and the rush of the shower from the room next door.

The bedroom lies in ruin, clothes and blankets rise in peaks and valleys across the floor; forgotten piles. Here and there an empty bottle, one crystalline heap of broken glass. It smells of split beer and aged whiskey, the lingering salt of your sweat, clean wind-rustled pines. Outside, the school continues on a normal trajectory, students fumbling their way to early classes and the staff forcing polite conversation over a hurried breakfast, but inside the safe burrow of your bedroom lies another world; safer, and private. There is no one here but us.

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